So here you go. I started working on this the second week of January and never got around to really finishing it. There was a third kill of a woman at the end, but the story was running too long and I ran out of steam. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find any inspiration to write the third act.
So instead of letting it fester, I just ended the story. Here you go.
Usual stuff. If you like it, please say so. If you love it, rep points are appreciated.
The Sweep by Attica
==============
Jon should feel lucky, he supposed, as he and the others of members of his unit stood on the outskirts of the now serene battlefield. It could be worse. He could be, a knight for example. Or a swordsman. Or a pikeman. But his father had taught him at an early age and he was blessed to have grown up strong enough to wield it.
The longbow.
Those few that demonstrated an ability to fire a longbow were huddled and protected from the main of the fighting and were allowed from a safe distance to wreck havoc and rain death from afar. The main advantage, as he saw it, was that the odds of him living to the end of battle were pretty good.
But there were drawbacks.
At the end of any given fight when most men were barely standing, his fellow archers were relatively unscathed. This meant that many times after a battle, the commander would call out for the archers to march into the field and ‘clean-up’ any hangers-on or enemy wounded that had the gall to not die right away..
This morning’s battle had occurred in the late fall amid frosted grass and a chilly autumnal breeze. The gray sky had just begun to lighten when the trumpets had rang out and the lines had ridden out to clash together. The battle had lasted 30 minutes and had been a messy thing played out in the muddy fields. It was eerily quiet now, a stark contrast after the cacophony noises of metal, men, and horses.
It was Alastair who brought the usual news. “Commander just put in the order. Go out and sweep.”
A young man that everyone had nicknamed Pip spoke up first. “It’s fucking cold out there Alastair,” said Pip. “They’ll freeze to death out by themselves. There’s no need to go sweep. The cold will do it for us.”
Alastair said nothing, giving his usual stern look to Pip and walked back to the commander’s tent.
One of the older archers, Janos, got up from his seat on a nearby log. His beard was starting to gray and the top of his hair had thinned noticeably during this march. “Eh, better them than me.” He starts walking to the left side of the battlefield, taking up a column in the field that was light with the dead.
Merrett waited until he was out of earshot of Janos. “Heh. See how he goes for the section of the battlefield that has few bodies in it.”
Jon shrugs and looked back at Merrett. “He’s old Merrett. Give him a break.”
Merrett shook his head. “He’s slowing us down. He’s maybe got one, maybe two more battles in him before Alastair puts him on the line with the pikemen. Besides, he doesn’t hit anything anymore.”
Jon looks at Merrett quizzically.
“Oh come on,” says Merrett. “Surely you have to notice when we do cleanup? That there are hardly any bodies with yellow fletching sticking out of them?”
It was true. Jon hadn’t seen many yellows the last few battles. It had been Pip’s idea to color the fletching of each arrow from an archer. That way after battles they could look and see how many each had killed. Pip had thought that by learning how many each man had killed and where, they could learn as a group on where and when to place their volley of arrows. Unfortunately, Alastair had noticed the colored arrows and asked Pip about it. Now he was keeping tabs on the number of dead produced by each archer.
Pip looked up as Janos walked further away. “Well, at least he didn’t take a quiver with him, so at least we know he’s not sticking random dead people with his arrows.” Pip looked out into the field, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face before blowing away in the gentle breeze. “Still colder than an old woman’s tit out there though.”
Merrett smiled, got up, and waved Pip in the direction of the dead, then started to walk into the battlefield, taking a position just to the right of Janos’ line. “Well,” said Marrett. “The cold is a good thing. It’s going to make it easier to see the wounded.”
Pip looked confused as he looked at Merrett, the veteran. His hair was full, brown and his eyes were surprisingly soft for a mercenary. Pip in comparison looked like every bit of the fifteen year old boy that he was. “Whaddya mean Marrett?” asks Pip.
Merrett stops a few feet away. He takes a deep breath and exhales it, producing a large cloud of white. Then he points to it as it drifts away. “Look for the breath on the ground. The wounded and the live ones will still be breathing, right? Look for the white clouds near the bodies. Now go on, we ain't got all day and we have a long march in an hour.”
Pip cocks his head, then starts to march down to the battlefield. “I’ll be damned if Merrett doesn’t teach you something every day.”
Jon decides to take a line on the far side near the trees, walking along next to Pip as they start to walk into the battlefield. Pip is about 25 yards away, taking a line parallel to Jon, near enough to where they can see and yell at each other.
The smell is the first thing that comes. He’s thankful for the cold since it keeps the smell of blood, carnage and death from being overwhelming. The battle had been particularly clumsy and slow moving. Half of the horses were slowed by the mud and many knights on both sides had difficulty moving in the muck once they were on foot, making them slow and easier to target.
Jon keeps moving his head side to side as he walks, scanning the various state of the dead, looking for movement or hearing the telltale moan of someone that needs to be put out of their misery. Many of the dead have arrows sprouting out of them. Some stick straight up like miniature flags, others have their shafts broken or damaged, making it look like each body had suddenly sprouted small twigs and branches like grotesque small trees.
“A lot of greens here Pip!” yells Jon. “You shooting the right side of the field?”
“Yeah!” Pip answers, yelling back. “I see a lot of blacks here on my row. Fuck, some of these are buried deep. You got some power there.”
Jon smiles. It was true. He was the strongest archer of the group with the heaviest bow. No one else could manage to pull it back more than a few inches, not even Merrett, who was a bear of a man. Jon continues to walk up the line when he sees his first puff of air coming from someone on the ground. Jon walks up, taking his knife from its sheath.
The man on the ground was gasping, a red arrow sticking from his chest. One of Marrett’s. He was coughing up blood and pale foam, his eyes looked up at the sky, wide open, blinking slowly at the sky, his face smudged with mud. Jon kneeled down next to him, watching as the man gurgled blood, too far gone to even know he was there. As he kneeled, he saw what had almost become routine during cleanup. The man’s pants were askew, his cock out, plainly and stiffly, pointing at the sky, almost at the same angle as the arrow sticking out of his chest. Taking a deep breath, Jon puts the knife against the man’s throat, presses down hard and then draws it across, the sharp knife parting the man’s neck easily and swiftly.
Jon leaps back instinctively, avoiding the first jets of blood spraying out and landing on the man’s chest. He watches for a moment as the man stiffens, then starts to relax as his cock spurts out a few ropes of cum, then starts to list to the side, softening in death, the man’s eyes staring at the sky as steam rises briefly from the streaks of white on the ground and on the dead man’s chest.
Jon turns away, continuing his walk down the line. The terrain starts to climb up some on a little hillock, the space between himself and Pip growing larger as their paths start to diverge as Jon climbs his hill near the forest edge. Pip is too far away to yell at but he can see him. He waves at Pip. Pip waves back, then continues on, stopping for a few moments, presumably to stab someone, and then keeps moving. From his vantage point, Jon can see the entire archery squad fanning out across the field as they continue finishing off the wounded.
Jon admires the view for a moment until he hears some rustling behind him in a nearby bush. Turning in the direction of low hedge, he pauses, standing, as his hand slowly reaches for his knife. He began thinking that maybe he had imagined it when a puff of white rises from behind a nearby hedge. He begins to approach, walking around the hedge, clutching his knife in his right hand, fingers tight on the grip. He wishes he had brought his bow and a few arrows.
When Jon comes around the hedge, he sees someone on the ground, face down and shivering, wearing simple homespun clothes that are threadbare and baggy around his frame. His blonde hair is tangled with a few twigs and matted in a few places with fresh wet mud. At the sound of footsteps Jon sees the man try and hide his face under the crook of an arm. Near him lays a pitchfork of questionable sharpness with rusting tines and a handle whose wood is so old that the color has been leached out, leaving it bone-grey and brittle. On a battlefield, it would have been useless. Whomever was laying on the dirt, pretending to be dead was probably some farmer's helper pressed into service by some passing knight who had lost his real squire to a battle. Wearing only the clothes on his back and possessing some strong arms, he was probably forced to tend to a horse or maybe carry some armor around for the knight. When the first battle of his life came, he most likely turned and fled, which explains the arrow shaft sticking out of the back of his right thigh, buried deep, almost to the fletching, the black feathers proclaiming it to be one of his arrows.
Jon approaches. The man tries to lay still and be pretend to dead, but the puffs of white in the air hang like an accusatory transparent sign. When Jon is only a few feet away, the young man gives up his pathetic acting attempt. He tries to get up, wobbling on one leg, then running, throwing all the power he can into his good left leg as he drags his useless right leg behind him. "Hey! Hey!" yells Jon, giving chase. The young man glances backwards, then screams as Jon runs at him, knife in hand, intent clear. He runs a few feet and then stumbles, catching his pant leg under one of his feet. He regains his balance and then surges forward. What little threadbare cloth that made up his pants can't take the strain and rips near the arrow shaft and a few existing holes, tearing them off of him, falling into a heap and leaving the ruined clothes behind him as he continues to run, his slightly hairy pale ass exposed to the cool morning air. The chase needs to end before the wounded man reaches the trees. As he reaches him he takes his long dagger and stabs it just under the left cheek of the man's buttocks, letting the sharp knife bite deeply into the muscle of the leg.
"Gahhhhh!" says the man. Jon nearly loses his grip on the knife but barely manages to hang onto it as it comes jerking out of the man's body as gravity claims the runner into the damp earth, falling down face first. Jon stands just behind him, trying to catch is breath when the man starts to move again, crawling away, dragging his useless legs behind him. He crawls over some small logs and branches, catching his tunic on a branch. The man, panicking, doesn't stop to free himself and instead keeps crawling, rending the thin fabric in two down the front as he continues dragging himself closer to the trees.
"Oh for fuck's sake!" whispers Jon. He looks up and realizes that he is uncomfortably close to the edge of the forest where an enemy archer could be lingering, waiting for an opportune moment. He needs to end this now. Jon takes a few quick steps forward and then firmly plants his knee into the small of the mans back, just above his now wiggling ass. The man on the ground screams, struggling and twisting, trying to buck Jon off of him. The remaining shaft of Jon's arrow pokes Jon in the ribs.
"Goddamnnit!" yells Jon. This was more work than he bargained for. Tired of being poked in the ribs, Jon grabs the shaft of the arrow near the bloody flesh in a fist and then torques it sideways, snapping the little dowel of wood near the wound. The man cries out in pain, squealing as the deeply lodged arrowhead tears into muscle and grinds against bone. While the man is temporarily immobilized by the pain, Jon quickly thrusts the knife down twice more, stabbing with precision into two muscle groups right where the arms and the shoulders meet, rendering the man's arms useless.
"No please no please mercy mercy mercy!" cries the man as he squirms, his head shaking, the blonde hair flapping around. Jon reaches down with his left hand, grabbing the back of the head by the hair. He can feel the warmth of the scalp and dampness of sweat from the running. He lifts up the head, pulling it away from the ground and bending it back, exposing his neck. With his right hand Jon flips the knife around so the edge is pointing upwards and then brings it down to the left side of the man’s neck.
"No no no no no…" the man cries out "No please…!"
Jon is still wrestling the struggling man as he bucks and squirms as he holds the mans head still with all the strength he can muster. He then takes his the knife in his right hand, angles it upward, and places it against the skin of the man's neck.
The man stiffens as he feels the cold edge of the knife against his neck. "Noooooo!"
Jon takes a deep breath and then with a firm hand presses the knife in deeply into the warm sweaty flesh of the man's neck. Immediately Jon feels a spurt of hot wet on his hand methodically moves back and forth, sawing a deep gouge in the man's throat, cutting easily through skin, muscle, sinew and windpipe.
"Noooo…HURK…GLURKKkkk…GLLllLlllkkkk!"
Jon listens to the man's voice change as he cuts across his windpipe as blood spurts on his hand, and then drips into the damp earth below, soaking it up like rain. He feels him stiffen as a sudden cloud of steam rises from the sudden warm pool of blood, filling the air with the coppery smell of blood. He is still breathing hard as continues to cut until his blade reaches the other side. Then he lets go of the man's head, stands up, places his boot to one side of his chest, and rolls him over onto his back.
The man is on his back now, his eyes are open and looking around, shuddering, afraid, feeling his heart beating quickly and hearing himself wheezing loudly, his chest heaving and heaving as his body tries to compensate for the ever smaller amount of blood circulating through his body. The man feels himself shuddering as he stares up at the clouds as he feels himself slowly disconnecting from the world.
Jon watches all of this, still gasping from exertion in a strange sad sympathy, working to recover from effort as the man on the ground hyperventilates and gurgles noisily, trying to hang on every last second he can. Jon's eyes scan the shuddering body below him, seeing the mans mouth open and close, watching as his face changes color from pink to grayish blue. Below that, the awful cut, still pulsing out blood rhythmically in time with every beat of the dying man's heart. His eyes continue to go down, seeing the tunic torn open, revealing the man's bare sweaty and glistening chest, heaving and heaving, the nipples flat and turning color to a washed out pink. His eyes continue down, to the bare belly button, then following the line of hair below it that that leads to the light brown tuft of pubic hair surrounding the large, uncut cock which starts to twitch slightly. He had seen many this many times, but not up close and alone. He feels his heart racing, feeling the after affects of adrenaline and effort. Casually, Jon takes his foot and nudges the twitching cock off the dying man and is surprised when it leaps up in response. He feels compelled to do it again and watches it respond, twitching, climbing as it slowly fills up, pointing up in the direction of the dying man's face.
Jon watches as the man continues to die. The desperate breathing a few moments ago has melted away to an occasional, quiet gurgle coming out. The pulses of blood have also weakened to a constant flow as the man's eyes lazily move around, the emotions played out on his face flickering from panic, then confusion, then an empty look as he starts to lose consciousness and descend into the dark.
Jon watches as the man stops breathing and begins to gulp for air awkwardly like a fish out of water. His eyelids droop slightly, his deep blue eyes stare off into the sky, unblinking. A quiet moan comes deep from some pocket of life still in him. There is a twitching of the man's cock, followed quickly by spurts of white cum quickly exiting the nearly dead body, seeking an escape from cooling, dying balls. Jon watches it fall like heavy sleet on the man's still chest and unblinking, dilating eyes as steam rises up from it in the cool air. After a few spurts it ends as the now dead man's cock starts to slowly lean over, deflating as if exhausted.
Jon stands and takes a step back, taking in the moment. The pool of blood, the smell of cum and struggle, the dead man's empty cum-covered eyes, face and chest. A new sharp smell joins in as the man quietly begins to defecate in death, a brown log of stink slowly extending out between his pale white, blood drained buttocks.
Jon stumbles backward a step, then turns around, climbing back up the little hillock and looking down at the field of battle. He can see the others heading back to camp, their work done. Pip looks up at him and waves him in. Jon doesn’t yell back, but instead waves back before descending back down the hill, his job done.
So instead of letting it fester, I just ended the story. Here you go.
Usual stuff. If you like it, please say so. If you love it, rep points are appreciated.
The Sweep by Attica
==============
Jon should feel lucky, he supposed, as he and the others of members of his unit stood on the outskirts of the now serene battlefield. It could be worse. He could be, a knight for example. Or a swordsman. Or a pikeman. But his father had taught him at an early age and he was blessed to have grown up strong enough to wield it.
The longbow.
Those few that demonstrated an ability to fire a longbow were huddled and protected from the main of the fighting and were allowed from a safe distance to wreck havoc and rain death from afar. The main advantage, as he saw it, was that the odds of him living to the end of battle were pretty good.
But there were drawbacks.
At the end of any given fight when most men were barely standing, his fellow archers were relatively unscathed. This meant that many times after a battle, the commander would call out for the archers to march into the field and ‘clean-up’ any hangers-on or enemy wounded that had the gall to not die right away..
This morning’s battle had occurred in the late fall amid frosted grass and a chilly autumnal breeze. The gray sky had just begun to lighten when the trumpets had rang out and the lines had ridden out to clash together. The battle had lasted 30 minutes and had been a messy thing played out in the muddy fields. It was eerily quiet now, a stark contrast after the cacophony noises of metal, men, and horses.
It was Alastair who brought the usual news. “Commander just put in the order. Go out and sweep.”
A young man that everyone had nicknamed Pip spoke up first. “It’s fucking cold out there Alastair,” said Pip. “They’ll freeze to death out by themselves. There’s no need to go sweep. The cold will do it for us.”
Alastair said nothing, giving his usual stern look to Pip and walked back to the commander’s tent.
One of the older archers, Janos, got up from his seat on a nearby log. His beard was starting to gray and the top of his hair had thinned noticeably during this march. “Eh, better them than me.” He starts walking to the left side of the battlefield, taking up a column in the field that was light with the dead.
Merrett waited until he was out of earshot of Janos. “Heh. See how he goes for the section of the battlefield that has few bodies in it.”
Jon shrugs and looked back at Merrett. “He’s old Merrett. Give him a break.”
Merrett shook his head. “He’s slowing us down. He’s maybe got one, maybe two more battles in him before Alastair puts him on the line with the pikemen. Besides, he doesn’t hit anything anymore.”
Jon looks at Merrett quizzically.
“Oh come on,” says Merrett. “Surely you have to notice when we do cleanup? That there are hardly any bodies with yellow fletching sticking out of them?”
It was true. Jon hadn’t seen many yellows the last few battles. It had been Pip’s idea to color the fletching of each arrow from an archer. That way after battles they could look and see how many each had killed. Pip had thought that by learning how many each man had killed and where, they could learn as a group on where and when to place their volley of arrows. Unfortunately, Alastair had noticed the colored arrows and asked Pip about it. Now he was keeping tabs on the number of dead produced by each archer.
Pip looked up as Janos walked further away. “Well, at least he didn’t take a quiver with him, so at least we know he’s not sticking random dead people with his arrows.” Pip looked out into the field, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face before blowing away in the gentle breeze. “Still colder than an old woman’s tit out there though.”
Merrett smiled, got up, and waved Pip in the direction of the dead, then started to walk into the battlefield, taking a position just to the right of Janos’ line. “Well,” said Marrett. “The cold is a good thing. It’s going to make it easier to see the wounded.”
Pip looked confused as he looked at Merrett, the veteran. His hair was full, brown and his eyes were surprisingly soft for a mercenary. Pip in comparison looked like every bit of the fifteen year old boy that he was. “Whaddya mean Marrett?” asks Pip.
Merrett stops a few feet away. He takes a deep breath and exhales it, producing a large cloud of white. Then he points to it as it drifts away. “Look for the breath on the ground. The wounded and the live ones will still be breathing, right? Look for the white clouds near the bodies. Now go on, we ain't got all day and we have a long march in an hour.”
Pip cocks his head, then starts to march down to the battlefield. “I’ll be damned if Merrett doesn’t teach you something every day.”
Jon decides to take a line on the far side near the trees, walking along next to Pip as they start to walk into the battlefield. Pip is about 25 yards away, taking a line parallel to Jon, near enough to where they can see and yell at each other.
The smell is the first thing that comes. He’s thankful for the cold since it keeps the smell of blood, carnage and death from being overwhelming. The battle had been particularly clumsy and slow moving. Half of the horses were slowed by the mud and many knights on both sides had difficulty moving in the muck once they were on foot, making them slow and easier to target.
Jon keeps moving his head side to side as he walks, scanning the various state of the dead, looking for movement or hearing the telltale moan of someone that needs to be put out of their misery. Many of the dead have arrows sprouting out of them. Some stick straight up like miniature flags, others have their shafts broken or damaged, making it look like each body had suddenly sprouted small twigs and branches like grotesque small trees.
“A lot of greens here Pip!” yells Jon. “You shooting the right side of the field?”
“Yeah!” Pip answers, yelling back. “I see a lot of blacks here on my row. Fuck, some of these are buried deep. You got some power there.”
Jon smiles. It was true. He was the strongest archer of the group with the heaviest bow. No one else could manage to pull it back more than a few inches, not even Merrett, who was a bear of a man. Jon continues to walk up the line when he sees his first puff of air coming from someone on the ground. Jon walks up, taking his knife from its sheath.
The man on the ground was gasping, a red arrow sticking from his chest. One of Marrett’s. He was coughing up blood and pale foam, his eyes looked up at the sky, wide open, blinking slowly at the sky, his face smudged with mud. Jon kneeled down next to him, watching as the man gurgled blood, too far gone to even know he was there. As he kneeled, he saw what had almost become routine during cleanup. The man’s pants were askew, his cock out, plainly and stiffly, pointing at the sky, almost at the same angle as the arrow sticking out of his chest. Taking a deep breath, Jon puts the knife against the man’s throat, presses down hard and then draws it across, the sharp knife parting the man’s neck easily and swiftly.
Jon leaps back instinctively, avoiding the first jets of blood spraying out and landing on the man’s chest. He watches for a moment as the man stiffens, then starts to relax as his cock spurts out a few ropes of cum, then starts to list to the side, softening in death, the man’s eyes staring at the sky as steam rises briefly from the streaks of white on the ground and on the dead man’s chest.
Jon turns away, continuing his walk down the line. The terrain starts to climb up some on a little hillock, the space between himself and Pip growing larger as their paths start to diverge as Jon climbs his hill near the forest edge. Pip is too far away to yell at but he can see him. He waves at Pip. Pip waves back, then continues on, stopping for a few moments, presumably to stab someone, and then keeps moving. From his vantage point, Jon can see the entire archery squad fanning out across the field as they continue finishing off the wounded.
Jon admires the view for a moment until he hears some rustling behind him in a nearby bush. Turning in the direction of low hedge, he pauses, standing, as his hand slowly reaches for his knife. He began thinking that maybe he had imagined it when a puff of white rises from behind a nearby hedge. He begins to approach, walking around the hedge, clutching his knife in his right hand, fingers tight on the grip. He wishes he had brought his bow and a few arrows.
When Jon comes around the hedge, he sees someone on the ground, face down and shivering, wearing simple homespun clothes that are threadbare and baggy around his frame. His blonde hair is tangled with a few twigs and matted in a few places with fresh wet mud. At the sound of footsteps Jon sees the man try and hide his face under the crook of an arm. Near him lays a pitchfork of questionable sharpness with rusting tines and a handle whose wood is so old that the color has been leached out, leaving it bone-grey and brittle. On a battlefield, it would have been useless. Whomever was laying on the dirt, pretending to be dead was probably some farmer's helper pressed into service by some passing knight who had lost his real squire to a battle. Wearing only the clothes on his back and possessing some strong arms, he was probably forced to tend to a horse or maybe carry some armor around for the knight. When the first battle of his life came, he most likely turned and fled, which explains the arrow shaft sticking out of the back of his right thigh, buried deep, almost to the fletching, the black feathers proclaiming it to be one of his arrows.
Jon approaches. The man tries to lay still and be pretend to dead, but the puffs of white in the air hang like an accusatory transparent sign. When Jon is only a few feet away, the young man gives up his pathetic acting attempt. He tries to get up, wobbling on one leg, then running, throwing all the power he can into his good left leg as he drags his useless right leg behind him. "Hey! Hey!" yells Jon, giving chase. The young man glances backwards, then screams as Jon runs at him, knife in hand, intent clear. He runs a few feet and then stumbles, catching his pant leg under one of his feet. He regains his balance and then surges forward. What little threadbare cloth that made up his pants can't take the strain and rips near the arrow shaft and a few existing holes, tearing them off of him, falling into a heap and leaving the ruined clothes behind him as he continues to run, his slightly hairy pale ass exposed to the cool morning air. The chase needs to end before the wounded man reaches the trees. As he reaches him he takes his long dagger and stabs it just under the left cheek of the man's buttocks, letting the sharp knife bite deeply into the muscle of the leg.
"Gahhhhh!" says the man. Jon nearly loses his grip on the knife but barely manages to hang onto it as it comes jerking out of the man's body as gravity claims the runner into the damp earth, falling down face first. Jon stands just behind him, trying to catch is breath when the man starts to move again, crawling away, dragging his useless legs behind him. He crawls over some small logs and branches, catching his tunic on a branch. The man, panicking, doesn't stop to free himself and instead keeps crawling, rending the thin fabric in two down the front as he continues dragging himself closer to the trees.
"Oh for fuck's sake!" whispers Jon. He looks up and realizes that he is uncomfortably close to the edge of the forest where an enemy archer could be lingering, waiting for an opportune moment. He needs to end this now. Jon takes a few quick steps forward and then firmly plants his knee into the small of the mans back, just above his now wiggling ass. The man on the ground screams, struggling and twisting, trying to buck Jon off of him. The remaining shaft of Jon's arrow pokes Jon in the ribs.
"Goddamnnit!" yells Jon. This was more work than he bargained for. Tired of being poked in the ribs, Jon grabs the shaft of the arrow near the bloody flesh in a fist and then torques it sideways, snapping the little dowel of wood near the wound. The man cries out in pain, squealing as the deeply lodged arrowhead tears into muscle and grinds against bone. While the man is temporarily immobilized by the pain, Jon quickly thrusts the knife down twice more, stabbing with precision into two muscle groups right where the arms and the shoulders meet, rendering the man's arms useless.
"No please no please mercy mercy mercy!" cries the man as he squirms, his head shaking, the blonde hair flapping around. Jon reaches down with his left hand, grabbing the back of the head by the hair. He can feel the warmth of the scalp and dampness of sweat from the running. He lifts up the head, pulling it away from the ground and bending it back, exposing his neck. With his right hand Jon flips the knife around so the edge is pointing upwards and then brings it down to the left side of the man’s neck.
"No no no no no…" the man cries out "No please…!"
Jon is still wrestling the struggling man as he bucks and squirms as he holds the mans head still with all the strength he can muster. He then takes his the knife in his right hand, angles it upward, and places it against the skin of the man's neck.
The man stiffens as he feels the cold edge of the knife against his neck. "Noooooo!"
Jon takes a deep breath and then with a firm hand presses the knife in deeply into the warm sweaty flesh of the man's neck. Immediately Jon feels a spurt of hot wet on his hand methodically moves back and forth, sawing a deep gouge in the man's throat, cutting easily through skin, muscle, sinew and windpipe.
"Noooo…HURK…GLURKKkkk…GLLllLlllkkkk!"
Jon listens to the man's voice change as he cuts across his windpipe as blood spurts on his hand, and then drips into the damp earth below, soaking it up like rain. He feels him stiffen as a sudden cloud of steam rises from the sudden warm pool of blood, filling the air with the coppery smell of blood. He is still breathing hard as continues to cut until his blade reaches the other side. Then he lets go of the man's head, stands up, places his boot to one side of his chest, and rolls him over onto his back.
The man is on his back now, his eyes are open and looking around, shuddering, afraid, feeling his heart beating quickly and hearing himself wheezing loudly, his chest heaving and heaving as his body tries to compensate for the ever smaller amount of blood circulating through his body. The man feels himself shuddering as he stares up at the clouds as he feels himself slowly disconnecting from the world.
Jon watches all of this, still gasping from exertion in a strange sad sympathy, working to recover from effort as the man on the ground hyperventilates and gurgles noisily, trying to hang on every last second he can. Jon's eyes scan the shuddering body below him, seeing the mans mouth open and close, watching as his face changes color from pink to grayish blue. Below that, the awful cut, still pulsing out blood rhythmically in time with every beat of the dying man's heart. His eyes continue to go down, seeing the tunic torn open, revealing the man's bare sweaty and glistening chest, heaving and heaving, the nipples flat and turning color to a washed out pink. His eyes continue down, to the bare belly button, then following the line of hair below it that that leads to the light brown tuft of pubic hair surrounding the large, uncut cock which starts to twitch slightly. He had seen many this many times, but not up close and alone. He feels his heart racing, feeling the after affects of adrenaline and effort. Casually, Jon takes his foot and nudges the twitching cock off the dying man and is surprised when it leaps up in response. He feels compelled to do it again and watches it respond, twitching, climbing as it slowly fills up, pointing up in the direction of the dying man's face.
Jon watches as the man continues to die. The desperate breathing a few moments ago has melted away to an occasional, quiet gurgle coming out. The pulses of blood have also weakened to a constant flow as the man's eyes lazily move around, the emotions played out on his face flickering from panic, then confusion, then an empty look as he starts to lose consciousness and descend into the dark.
Jon watches as the man stops breathing and begins to gulp for air awkwardly like a fish out of water. His eyelids droop slightly, his deep blue eyes stare off into the sky, unblinking. A quiet moan comes deep from some pocket of life still in him. There is a twitching of the man's cock, followed quickly by spurts of white cum quickly exiting the nearly dead body, seeking an escape from cooling, dying balls. Jon watches it fall like heavy sleet on the man's still chest and unblinking, dilating eyes as steam rises up from it in the cool air. After a few spurts it ends as the now dead man's cock starts to slowly lean over, deflating as if exhausted.
Jon stands and takes a step back, taking in the moment. The pool of blood, the smell of cum and struggle, the dead man's empty cum-covered eyes, face and chest. A new sharp smell joins in as the man quietly begins to defecate in death, a brown log of stink slowly extending out between his pale white, blood drained buttocks.
Jon stumbles backward a step, then turns around, climbing back up the little hillock and looking down at the field of battle. He can see the others heading back to camp, their work done. Pip looks up at him and waves him in. Jon doesn’t yell back, but instead waves back before descending back down the hill, his job done.
